


valerian, borealis, and other unusual marital aids

by callmearcturus



Series: The Year King and the Alchemist [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, Somnophilia, a few years down the road from the end of 'chamomile', alchemy shenanigans, gentle soft domestic, safe loss of control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-06-29 11:14:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15728262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmearcturus/pseuds/callmearcturus
Summary: set a few years after the events ofchamomile, rose water, and other unlikely intoxicants.Even with life on the Eternal Throne well behind him, Dirk dreads the return of winter every year.Now that he knows enough alchemy to be dangerous, there's options, and time enough to try them out.A good time is had by all.





	1. five-point borealis, sugared

It's an earlier winter than usual. The cold snap follows closely on autumn's heels and leaves not so much as a last gasp before your breath comes in with an icy stitch. The morning dew freezes leaves in place on their branches, arrested in their pre-fall.

The waterwheel is not going to work for much longer; the river is going to lock up before you know it. Already, downstream it's turning to slush, the water sluggish down where the tree cover is thicker and the shadows cast a heavy cold cover.

But not yet, and you have things to finish processing before that happens. You stand vigil over the grindstone as it works through spices. There's plenty you don't want to wind up hand-grinding with your mortar and pestle.

Through the wall, you can hear the waterwheel as it turns. There's a distinctive dull noise, like knocking wooden spoons together underwater. The sound is almost melodic, and is definitely hypnotic. You'll miss it in the coming months; ever since it was fixed, it's been one of your favorite pieces of the house. Almost musical.

You go through the motions of emptying the grinder and cleaning it before dropping the next ingredient in, and returning to your watch. The stone spins around. The wheel clanks. The air in your chest bites.

The stillness in you is hardening like clay, leaving you unable to move even as your fingertips grow cold. This is the chilliest room in the cottage, and you feel it stealing into your extremities more with each passing minute.

A heavy shawl knit from buttery thick yarn the color of a toasted orange wraps around you like wings. You startle, sucking in a breath through your nose, and reach up to dig your fingers into it to keep it from slipping off the lazy slope of your shoulder.

Bending around you, Jake leans in, his nose against your temple. Which, of course. You've been bottling oils today, and Jake likes sniffing you. "Mm. Lavender and basil."

You push a hand against his chest until he eases back from nostril-deep in your hair. "It's Dirk, actually, you starcrossed curio. Stop that."

"Aw," Jake says, and moves not at all away. Instead, he takes the edges of the shawl and folds them better around you. "You're an icicle. What is my frosty companion up to?"

"Getting the peppercorns done. The weird ones that cause numbness? The poultice with them was popular last season."

Jake somehow sidles back in, draping himself around you. His cheek is in your air. He is convinced he's subtle. "You hate making that one."

"Yeah, well," you start, crisp and cool as a slap. "Not much to enjoy."

Oddly, that's what gets him to step away, circling around the grinder and watching it work. "Oof. Already? We've not had snowfall yet, love."

Shit. You cross your arms under your shawl and shift on your chair. It's suddenly a lot less comfortable. "Don't get your scarf caught in the grindstone."

"Of course not." He smiles at you, gentle and good-humored.

He watches the wheel do its steady work, eyes off you. You feel the absence like a cat being brushed the wrong way. "Hey… Jake."

Somehow, he is still smiling when he lifts his gaze to yours. "It's fine, Dirk, honestly. Shouldn't've ran my gob like that, I know how you are."

"No, but starblight, I…" Your mouth twists, lemon tart bitterness in your throat. "I'm trying, I swear, I'm trying not to be such a--"

"You," Jake says sternly, fairly stomping back over to you, "are not nearly the menace you think yourself to be." His fingers are blunt and demanding as he tips your head back and presses his lips against the space between your brows. Your lips part around a sigh, eyes shutting. Touch softening, he strokes down your neck, thumb against your pulse. You can feel his words against your skin: "Try to be a little kinder to yourself, daffodil."

"Rather be kinder to you," you mutter. "Sorry."

He sighs as he straightens, which stings you to hear. "I'm going to get dinner started. Ease off the screws, for me, please."

You get another swift kiss before he leaves you to continue your vigilant watch over the peppercorns.

As soon as you're alone, you lean your face in your hands and groan.

Another fucking winter is closing in. Are you just going to do all this again? There has to be another way. You _need_ to find another way.

 

* * *

 

The path does not reveal itself for a while. The start of winter is always a little busy, in complete counterpoint to the rest of the season being a boring trek through precipitation and snow blindness. Jake secures the wheel and moves firewood to dry out for burning. You settle Acorn in and make sure the charms and runes carved into the animal housing are still holding fast, ready to protect everyone. The closet is emptied of all of its quilted delights, strewn and scattered in strategic locations around the cottage, ready for use.

Halley installs himself by the fire, old bones happy for the heat.

For the past few years, you've attended the harvest bazaar with Jake. Now, you have time to sort through all the things you purchased and traded for in anticipation of winter. Perishables are stowed in charmed storage, and you shove heavy carved rods of palo santo into the bags of flour and rice to protect them from any small insects that could spoil things. Meanwhile, Jake finishes prepping the garden to survive another freeze.

At the end of every day, you eat simple meals, dried figs and bread with nut butter, laying on the sofa in front of the fire, too tired to move.

It's strange. Most of the time, this life you've been given into feels like something newborn and novel. Other times, especially this time of year where the air shivers with the threat of snow, your joints begin to ache with age.

This is, of course, what ginger and cajeput balm are for.

You have a little pot of the stuff in the kitchen, at your heavy wooden table. Over your head are racks, holding suspended bundles of herbs and flowers until they are ready for their journey through pharmalchemy. There's something satisfying to reaching up and just tugging loose stalks of lavender or aromatic bunches of rosemary.

The set-up scratches at some old memory of yours, distant like a lost ship. Your guardian, his painting station, the pots and jars he used to mix pigments into new hues. Salt and resin. You remember salt and resin, strong enough to make you sneeze as he laughed.

Now, you clip your hair back with the hinged comb Jake gave you a few years back, and look over all the processed ingredients sitting in their tidy, labeled jars and canisters.

There's something here, you think.

Pulling out the stack of books you keep under the shelf, you drag your fingers down the spines of a few. Jake always calls them cookbooks, which you find horribly charming.

A few of them are older than you are, which is a fair feat. It took a while to realize, but something in the Skaian vernacular shifted while you sat on the Eternal Throne. It was a gradual meander of dialect that you didn't quite follow, even as you moved with it. But point being, some older tomes weren't used much anymore, simply because they're a slog to read.

You, orphan of a hundred winters that you are, don't have the same troubles, and so slide out a yellowed book from the stack, pushing its fellows back into place before dragging the heavy cover back. Paging through it feels like navigating aged moth wings, and you are very careful.

Plenty of recipes are the same or at least very similar to the current staples of your work. Enough of the components are solidly in your wheelhouse.

But there is one that seems even older than the rest. Valerian and a concentration of poppy with the center stalks of passiflora, and all stewed in with a draught of white lightning, blue clover, and sugared borealis.

The book calls this the Euphoria Of Valerian. It's a completely useless name.

You have nothing but time, so you decide to make a wafer.

Wafers are the smallest sample of any ingestible alchemy you can make. You cut the components of the Euphoria down to the smallest portions you can, barely enough to fill a thimble by the time you're done.

With great care, you pour the concoction out onto petals of sugar paper, letting the drops saturate the thin round wafer.

In an hour, it's dry. You pick one up and hold it up to the lamplight. It… looks like every other wafer you've made, like smudged linen that you're meant to eat.

You brace yourself on the table as you stand, doing your best not to let your stool drag against the floor. Quietly, you peer around the door, into the living room.

Halley's chasing rabbits in his sleep again, and Jake is working through the mending that needs doing. The only sound is the crack-pop of the first place. It's quintessential, the interplay of troublesome grey light coming in through the windows and how it butts against the impenetrable force of Jake and his desire for a nice evening.

Ducking back to your work table, you decide that sounds good to you. A nice evening, no worrying, no sensory flashbacks to winters past. Just darning coats and socks and blankets that need.

Licking your fingertip, you tap one of the wafers and pluck it up. Refusing to make a big deal out of it, you press it against your tongue until the edges start to dissolve.

Swallowing, you leave the kitchen and join Jake at the sofa. "Need a spare hand?"

Jake looks over at you as you pick up his pile of To Do and set it further down the cushions. His eyebrows lift, and just a peek of his prominent front teeth flash at you. "Am I keen in watching you stab yourself all over with a needle again?"

"Can't get better without practice," you tell him.

"A far sight from all your sworn oaths last year. I seem to recall some royal proclamations about the inherent cruelty of textile crafts."

"I'm not that dramatic," you say, and the words have barely left your mouth before Jake snorts loudly. "Let me help."

Jake shakes his head slowly, gaze lowering to his hands and the loop of his thread through the edge of a fraying cardigan. "You sit your handsome self there and keep me company and don't so much as touch a needle."

Fine. You can do that. You sit against Jake's side as he meticulously works with the sleeve, humming softly to himself, pitch lifting and falling in time with each puncture of the needle.

Adjusting a bit, your knees tucked in towards him, off the cold floor, leaning against his side. His lips curl up in a blatant fondness, and you feel better about making a nuisance of yourself.

You try to calm down. That's the whole point of this. The fluttery nervous thing that lodges in your chest this time every year makes life harder on you and Jake both, and it'd be nice to burn it out of you once and for all. Or, more accurately, soothe it to sleep with old alchemy.

Wafers tend to be rapidly effective due to their medium. But maybe you are paying so much attention to it, waiting to feel the magic kickstart, that you're countering it? That does sound very much like something you'd do.

Looking around for something to do doesn't help much. The fireplace reminds you of the season. The color of light streaming in through the windows does the same. The pile of clothes and linens, again.

With a slow blink, you realize you need to do something to cork up the incessant worries in your head and to let this work.

Closing your eyes, you put your head on Jake's shoulder. He's always been the perfect height for this. It's a small thing you've always appreciated about him, how you both fit.

His arm moves slightly as he works, movement easy and controlled. His humming deepens and gains something resembling actual tone. Small things. You try to follow along, but even compared to Jake you can't carry a tune.

There's a sharp movement that makes you peek out again. Jake tossing the cardigan in the Done pile at his feet. The needle gets jabbed deep into the arm of the sofa for safety before he lifts and moves to coax you under, against his side and under his arm. It's familiar in a way that's written into your muscle memory; you've slept like this many nights.

Dozing off might not be the worst thing. Counter to your goal, but Jake loves midday naps, and you lucked out with a very good sofa when you moved into this place.

But sleep doesn't descend on you this time. Jake's chest moves with slowing breaths, and that's usually enough to knock you out, but this time you just listen to him let out a long sigh dredged up from deep inside. His hand is sunlight warm wrapped around you, heavy on your hip. Like always, his thumb tucks under your shirt.

With your eyes closed, you can imagine the way his skin contours with his calluses, and the small valleys of his fingerprint as they press into you, as if you are molding to fit. You are so cool and he's warm, he could melt you, like wax losing itself in the presences of a glowing wick.

Spreading out, sinking against him, you reciprocate his little sweet greed and stretch your arm out across him, under his sweater. His stomach is hot and smooth like a river stone; he'll get softer through the winter, with stagnation and heavy meals and something akin to hibernation. If you press down, maybe you could leave a mark, return the gesture, leave some emblem of your hands behind.

His body moves with a particularly deep breath, and your hand slides up along the curve it creates. Fingers tuck into the coarse hair up there, and you're fairly sure you are aware of every single strand of the pelt Jake hides under his clothes. It's like he was built for the cold more than you were, the retired prince of all winters. It's funny, and you tuck your grin against his chest.

It is quite a bit like melting. You think you're liable to soak into his body at this rate. Every inch of him is ready to catch you, and you seek out all the little places, meandering but intent. Heated beeswax waiting for shape. Jake's very good at that, better than you.

The moment of still dreamy contemplation breaks when Jake moves, grabbing your hips and hauling you up. You're so relaxed, so out of it, the suddenness startles a fucking yelp out of you, hands clamping on his shoulders.

His sweater is knit loose. You dig your fingers into it, sucking in a breath.

"What," Jake says, eyes open and fixed to your face, "are you doing there, lovely?"

"What?" you echo back at him.

"Well, a fellow gets the impression it's time for a late day kip on the couch with his best beloved, and then he's fondled and groped! I don't mind, but give a wink or something, Dirk."

Your brow pulls down. Melts down. Slow and shifting just from the weight of the universe. "Wasn't moving… you were. Moving me."

Jake's eyebrows lift high. "Was I now? Are you shifting blame to an innocent man?"

Now you're hardening all over in the cold air, and it leaves you shivery. It's an unhappy feeling. Shaking your head, you untangle from Jake's knitwear and instead cup his neck.

The way you soften and sink into him is still an exhilarating feeling. Jake seems much less shocked, moving to catch you, supporting your body as you press down against him and kiss his parted lips. That's nice, and you hitch up a bit on your knees to get the angle right, like you could fall straight into him. That's _very_ nice.

You kiss him for hours. You plan to kiss him for days. There is a little hollow built by the cord of muscle stretching from his jaw to his collarbone, and you want to fill it, so you drag your mouth against it next. Jake's gasp stirs your hair, and this is perfect. You are going to melt right into him, your favorite person, the most wonderful thing in this world, and his voice saying your name and his breath will fill in for the 'everything else' part of the equation. Yes, perfect.

His hands stroke your back, and you almost imagine you've grown some type of fur along your spine, the feeling is so rich and lush. Just the drag of his palm up to the base of your neck makes you jerk, rippling, clutching tighter to him. It's so much. Too much. When he does it again, you can barely see, moaning into his skin and shaking to pieces.

There's a later.

'Later' is a three hour nap away, with Jake holding your head in his hands and staring into your eyes, watching your pupils or something.

"What the hell did you make, mucking around in old books? Stars and fucking pillars, you gave me a fright," Jake says, sharp with concern.

Your tongue is like a marble rolling around uselessly. You feel a little like that time you slept for almost a month. Scrubbing your eyes with the heel of your hand, you mutter, "Not sure."

"You aren't sure what you made?" That's not a happy jovial tone. Shit.

Giving your cheeks a brisk slap, you try to pull yourself together. "It was something with valerian, but also white lightning and borealis? It was this mix of soothers and energetic ingredients, I thought it would… help."

"Help what, make you a confused mess that gets his jollies from heavy petting then immediately falls asleep?"  
  
"Fuck," you say with feeling, and cover your face.

 

* * *

 

In the morning, Jake makes you both mugs of hot chocolate with fresh mint. You sit on the corner of the work table while Jake pours over the page you were using. The verbage is antiquated, and you have to translate a bit for him, but at least his stormy expression clears.

"Dirk," he says with a sigh. "My darling dahlia, my beloved housecat, my handsome leggy beauty. What on earth possessed you to make something called the _Euphoria of Valerian?"_

You sigh and lift your mug to your mouth for a sip. Mm. "Not sure. It sounded legitimate, with valerian balanced by borealis."

"You are natural ingenuity balanced by some truly mystifying decision making." He softens his words by taking your free hand and kissing the knuckles. "Are you having trouble sleeping? Or, no… You knew this wasn't a nap recipe."

"Now I'm having trouble staying awake," you mutter. "Probably a side effect of that Euphoria."

Jake rests his chin in his palm and tips his head, staring up at you. Before you can look away, you feel your face flush. This time of year, when everything else seems steeped in dishwater, Jake's eyes are still the most vivid green you've seen. "That sounds suspiciously like a hedge."

"A shrub?" When Jake rolls his eyes, you sigh again.  "Look." You grimace.

Jake twists on the stool, and gives you a 'go on' gesture.

There's nothing about this Jake is going to like, you know that already. "It's winter," you say quietly, over the rim of your mug. "I'm trying to find something that'll help me be less… like this."

When you falter, Jake runs his fingers over the back of your palm. "The melancholia?"

"No. I can handle that, it's fine."

"Dirk," Jake starts.

"No, I mean-- listen."

"You listen," Jake says, and every word is saturated in honey. His fingers keep petting you; you keep remembering the strange way the Euphoria made him feel against you, and look away, out the window as you bite the insides of your cheeks. "I don't know what convinced you you're such a trouble, but I can handle you fine. Whether you realize it or not, you're getting better at this, too! Maybe it's not as fleetfooted as you want, but it's going to take time."

"It's every starblighted year," you say, unable to keep the acid from your voice.

"And if it's every starblighted year for the rest of our days, I'll still be man enough for you." He pulls your hand up to kiss it again.

You unbend your fingers and cup Jake's face; his mouth against the soft flesh at the base of your thumb, you touch the edge of his beard, where it's quickly turning from scruff into something earnest.

Jake looks up at you like… with a lot in his gaze, heavy and shining bright as a cut gem. "If you want something for the melancholia, I can assist there."

You shake your head. Setting your half-drained mug aside, you push off the table, wincing at the cold bite of the floor. Luckily your slippers are close, and you tuck your feet into them. "I can handle it."

"I know." Jake stands with you, crowding against your side and wrapping one arm around your waist. He plucks your hair comb out of your loose knot, getting his hand into your hair. It's getting long again; time to begin the weeks-long process of convincing Jake to cut it again. "I've got another cookbook that might help, if you want a peek. But it's funny, how things change. You used to let me help you."

You turn in his arms to narrow your eyes at him. "I once let you _serve_ me."

One corner of his mouth lifts into a sly grin. "You make it sound like a dirty word, as if I didn't enjoy the arrangement thoroughly. Sometimes I could do with a little…" His voice drops into something deep that gets you right between the ribs before he trails off, smiling bashfully. "Oh, never you mind."

You tighten your hand in the back of his shirt. "What?"

His mouth works for a moment with no real sound before he lets out a little chuckle. "It's nothing, just how you… bristle when I try to do it. Serve you. Not that I do it a lot anymore, but sometimes, I… or, anyone could long for a bit of… what's the term…"

"Subservience?" you offer.

"Again with your dirty words," Jake chides you. "And, well, maybe it is. Maybe, _your majesty,_ a former man of the lilac gets his jollies from laying you down and putting hands on, is that so bad?"

Sometimes you are stunned at how Jake just says shit, throwing words out like a tornado. "Uh, wow. Did you…" You lick your lip, and see the way Jake _watches_ you do it. "Do you mean, like--"

"What I _meant_ was a genuine overture of offered assistance, not a solicitation," Jake says, but his face is flushed darkly, eyes fire through green glass. "Let me-- I'm gonna grab my old grimoire, it's upstairs."

He darts you a kiss before hurrying away.

You lean back on the table and pick up your mug again, ready to finish it, mulling over chocolate and Jake.

 

* * *

 

Fingers stained with watercolor pigment, bending your spine like a fish hook as you dab water in a precise fan across the paper, you think about alchemy.

Watercolor is odd. You have to plan things out differently than with regular painting. getting the right effect means sitting at the right angle from the light, catching the sheer of dampness you've set out, then imbue it with color carefully. Not that chalks or charcoals don't have their own peculiarities, but when you do this, it feels like stretching out a different muscle in your mind, tracking dryness and which colors flow most readily through wet tracks.

You've been going about things in a very particular way for the last few years. Maybe that's why you're not making any headway.

Every winter, you turn into an irritable melancholic mess that can't be trusted to reliably get out of bed in the morning. True, but a challenge you find nigh insurmountable.

Jake misses taking care of you. If you could calm the coltish nervousness in your head for long enough, you could give Jake the reins and let him take you in gentle hand.

Jake's not the only one who misses that.

You swipe some water on a spare page and drop some sunset hues into it, exploring where they meld and where they hold their colors.

The Euphoria was not a solution to the problem you were trying to solve. And frankly it's not the solution to _this_ problem either, but you remember some of the interest parts of it. The way you felt like you were boneless and weak, but devoid of vulnerability. You were helpless, and you were invincible.

It's a little alien to look back on that brief span of time. How did you feel so calm and so clearly out of control? The two ideas repulse each other, oil and water. Jake and admitting defeat. Halley and not barking at the door when Jade comes to visit.

The grimoire Jake loaned you is sitting under the shelf. You think about pulling it out and taking a look at its offerings.

But your hands are a mess. You should finish this first. Then you can make a whole new, far more volatile and potentially disastrous mess.

You have all winter. Nothing but snow and time.

 

* * *

 

From inside the house, you can hear the dull sound of the axe striking wood as Jake works cleaving wood into manageable bolts for the fire. It's the sort of busywork you need halfway into winter, when all the mending is done and you've finished processing the garden spoils into useable components. Everything is sealed or bottled or steeping or drying out. You have three painting up to set, and Jake's stack of playbooks has been heavily leafed through.

You don't need any fresh meat, and Jake's already taken a trip up to Skaia. So, he's chopping wood, ignoring the neat stack you have already inside.

There's nothing to do but let him work it out a bit. It's as much a part of winter as the snow now. And the noise is relaxing.

While he's doing that, you have three different books open on the table, sitting down with your ass on a pillow and your back to the fire, keeping warm as you sort through and cross reference.

Valerian's too effective, is the problem. Cut that out. Passiflora sneaks up on you, but it's more calming than sleep-inducing. Then again, so is chamomile but it always knocks you out as if it were a full sleeping draught. That might just be the way you've conditioned yourself to get tired when you cap off the evening with it, though.

Maybe stacking things up with the more gentle soothers would work. Passiflora and chamomile in combination with… a cousin to lemon balm, one of the other mints that's less likely to put you to sleep.

Borealis isn't in any of the books after the old antiquated tome you first found it in. Given how the Alchemy Guild guards some of its secrets jealously, maybe that's by design. But it's obviously linked to opening senses and increasing focus, given the intersection of the starsight potion and the Euphoria.

It has to stay. Without something to narrow your attention, you're going to wind up dozing off again. But the white lightning probably isn't needed. Rosemary instead? Probably too subtle.

You're going off script, and while you're great at following a recipe, you're not _that_ skilled at alchemy yet. Chances are, you're going to somehow create a mathematically neutral blend that leaves you unchanged.

Licking your fingertips, you flick through Jake's cookbook again. There's some charming handwritten notes in the margins. They would likely offer great wisdom in your quest, but Jake's scrawl is chicken scratch.

You realize the wooden song of the axe has stopped a second before Jake comes in with his arms full of firewood. He bends awkwardly to grab the handle and open the door, and bumps it closed again with his hip after. "If that doesn't do us for the rest of the season," he says, which is not a complete sentence, but you'll forgive him.

He drops the wood on top of the rest and goes to wash in the basin. "Oh, have you been keeping that quilt warm for me? What a good man you are."

"Sure," you say easily, and loosen the drape of the blanket around yourself. The thought of hiding your work crosses your mind, and you have time to do it.

Instead, you lean back on your pillow and wait until Jake stomps over, only taking off his boots once he's close enough to huddle in with you.

He's cold as he wraps around your body. You don't mind, letting him leech some heat away from you. After so long by the fire, under heavy blankets, the cool press is almost a relief.

Jake wiggles in until he's got his legs around you, his chin hooking over your shoulder. "That's better. Now what are you cooking up this time? What precisely needs three books out?"

Inhaling deeply, you pull your little book of notes in, and slide it down the table for him to see. "Making something up as I go."

"Hm. Daring," he says, but you think he means 'dangerous.'

"Go ahead," you tell him, and keep your hands tucked under the blanket as he reaches out and picks up your book, looking at your tidy, perfectly legible handwriting.

He rests it on your lap and hums to himself. And says nothing.

Which means, by process of elimination, you are forced to speak, and you prattle out, "I cut valerian because it's an instant knock out for me, same with the poppy. I wanted to push for more _calm_ than _sleepy_ , but getting it to work with the borealis is hard since there's no full entry on five point borealis is any of these books."

"Trade secret," Jake says, sounding distracted.

"I assumed. And this isn't a long term solution, obviously. I don't think I have the knowledge base to make something regimental. I was more hoping for a…. few good hours, basically."

"A few good hours," Jake repeats quietly.

"Yeah. Of…" Your face feels hot. "Putting a lid on my anxious horseshit, but not going dead to the world. In case you wanted to-- uh, to do something, and I could still enjoy it. And not get in the way."

As soon as you say it, you expect Jake to chide you again, counter what your saying without another reassurance, earnest as ever.

But he seems deep in thought, rubbing his mouth with one hand and rereading your notes again.

Shit. "Is this weird?"

"No," Jake says quickly. "Hold on, I'm thinking. And…" His teeth press down onto his lower lip for just a moment. "Well. The thing I'm likely to suggest might be the weird thing."

"Tell me, I'm dying over here."

"Hush a sec." He grabs his own book from the trio and pulls it over to leaf through it with the sort of rapidity that signaled great familiarity. "I think I get what you're aiming at, and it's very hard for all the reasons you already sussed out. Heightening awareness while smoothing your reactions is difficult, and the particular fiddly concoction I would even try for that would involve more intense ingredients than I want you ingesting."

"Oh," you say, disappointed.

"Hang on," he insists at you. It takes great effort not to pout; you can feel the urge coming on strong.

Jake takes a while to think everything over. It's long enough you nearly give into the desire to slip out from under the cover and go hide in the kitchen or something. Maybe just indulge in a hot bath and wash away the tension in your arms.

The only thing holding you back is how Jake taps your hip with two fingers, tactile and transparently linked with his thoughts as he puzzles through this. You want something you can use, some kind of solution. You're willing to sit and wait for it.

At long last, Jake lets out a little sigh. "Right, I've got the best bet for this sort of thing, but it's… coming at it from another angle, and it might not be one you like. I'm a tad nerved just suggesting it, so let's make a little pact to avoid any bruised feelings, and if you don't jive with the notion, just give me a little head shake and we won't, uh-- we won't. All in accordance?"

"Sure," you say, already wondering what has Jake so worried.

"Right. Great." He clears his throat, and looks away for a moment before his eyes snap back to you. "The alternative is to use the valerian-poppy mixture, but no long-term drowsy ingredients. Cause a short but deep sleep, and put a concentration of borealis and amyris to keep you aware."

"Aware… while I'm asleep?"

"Yes," Jake says simply, and nothing more.

You unpack all that in your head for a moment. The implications settle in like fallen leaves.

Jake's watching you very closely. Waiting.

You frown. "Do… you think I don't trust you?"

"Not at all. S'not what I'm-- no. I know you trust me, lovely. It's not about trust, really."

Perhaps not for him. But to you, it is. How much trust have you placed in Jake. And that is an easy question to answer.

Also. The idea is interesting. Sleep, with some form of awareness? What would that be like?

"Dirk," he says entreatingly.

"I'm in," you tell him. "What else do we need?"

As if you smacked him, Jake recoils, looking at you anew, his eyes wide and shocked. Does he not want to?

But slowly, Jake smiles, a sweet crescent moon illuminating his face. "Just a few things. Here, I'll write it out."

"No," you say, and snatch up your pen. "Dictate. I'll write."

 

* * *

 

Between the two of you is an unspoken agreement to wait for a while.

You make the the concoction yourself, using Jake's guidance and his recipe. Using the wafer method again, you create three sugar paper samples, and store the petals in a little box on the shelf for safe keeping.

Then, you return to the normal daily routine of winter, moving like slush through each day and night. For your part, you're waiting for a sign, something to make it clear that you're ready to try it.

"It was bound to happen eventually, you know," Jake tells you one too-bright sunny day as you walk along the riverside. Halley bounds through the snow, nearly vanishing with his colorless fur into the drifts. "Two attractive gentlemen living out in the woods with a shitload of alchemic components and an abundance of free time."

You walk beside him, your hands tucked into opposite sleeves, holding your elbows to keep warm.  "Suddenly it all makes sense," you murmur. "Your haste to move out here and get me alone."

"Yes, I'm quick nefarious like that," Jake says, grinning. Together you traverse the frozen riverside another good ten minutes in silence. Then, he asks, "You're not waiting for Candlenights, are you?"

You squint at him; the sun's sinking lower, and the reflection off the snow stings your eyes. "Hm. Not particularly, but we could do that? I haven't figured out a gift for you this year."

Lips pressing together, he shakes his head. "Prefer not. There's something… that tickles the brainstems about it. I don't want you do be a gift."

"Not even if I put on a bow?" you ask, keeping your tone level.

"You complain about the ten seconds between getting out of the tub and getting a robe on, and you're going to tolerate being bare assed in just a bow?"

"Didn't say anything about nudity."

He laughs, bright as the snow, and smirks at you. "Soon. Not tomorrow, but soon, alright?"

You incline your head to him and let your arm bounce into his companionably. "I'll follow your lead."

You don't go for it the next day, and the day after Jake brings home an enormous game bird, so you avoid him most of the evening as he plucks and cleans the thing into something you can stand to look at. Then, well, you don't want to do it because you have roast pheasant and vegetables, which is delicious.

So, four days.

You fill your bathtub with snow and crack a heating tile in it, and keep another in reach as you soak for almost an hour, making damned sure you are perfectly clean. Your skin goes pink in the heat, and steam visibly rises from the water, like a screen drawn over the world.

Jake seems to realize something is up, and eventually lets himself into the wash room. He lingers in the doorway a moment, just watching you at first.

"Yeah?" you prompt, rolling your heat-drowsy head to look at him.

"Taking your time today," Jake says. "Your hair's still dry."

"Haven't got to it."

"May I?"

He takes the stool and moves it to sit behind you. Wetting your hair with scooped water, he rubs the salty soap into your hair, working it in and cleansing out all of the dirt and sweat that always builds up in winter, when it's not feasible for you to bathe every other day. You just can't keep up with the needed tiles.

Rinsing all the suds out, you resurface and lay back against the edge of the tub, between his legs. "Oil. The soap strips my hair, I need to put oil back in."

"You are such an awful lot of work," Jake says fondly, but grabs the little bottle when you point to it.

"What do you think you're smelling when you sniff my hair?"

"I don't know what you mean," Jake says. Instead of handing the bottle over, he pours a little into his hands and cards his fingers deep into your hair. "That would be a completely queer habit to harbor." He bends down over you, and inhales deeply. "Oh, that is nice. If you're going to be a fastidious little fussbudget, at least you smell nice."

You lay back and let Jake massage your scalp until the water finally becomes too lukewarm to tolerate. Getting out, you dry off, and immediately pull on your robe because it's fucking freezing in the house. The sofa and its heavy draped blankets has never been so far away.

Still, you have one quick detour. Into the kitchen, where Jake's making tea with his back to you. Quickly, you reach around the corner and grab the little box sitting on the alchemy table. It fits your palm nicely as you shuffle to the sofa and start wrapping yourself up there, shivering.

The box you set on the corner of the table, and leave it there.

When Jake brings hot tea, you see his eyes flick over to the box. It's just a second, and he doesn't say anything. Mugs on the table, he sits directly next to you, dragging your legs into his lap to stroke with his hands. "Freezing, love."

"That's helping," you inform him, laying your head back against the corner of the sofa. Jake's furnace hot for you. "Is that chamomile?"

Jake grunts, a faint affirmative. His hands cup your heels, rubbing the knot of your ankle. "Should… are you going to skip it tonight?"

You nod. "Is that okay?"

"Yes," Jake says, and then seems embarrassed at the haste of his reply. "I mean, if you're not feeling up for it tonight, who am I to say one way or counter?"

"Are you still talking about the tea?"

"Dirk," Jake sighs, giving you a sulky look. "What did I do to deserve you? Cursed with such a relentless tease who's never satisfied."

"Stole me, the way you tell it."

He hums, intent and pleased at the words. "A pretty prize. Hold still." Bracing on your knee, he bends nearly in half, reaching forward. The box is just barely out of his reach, and you placidly watch him make little "eeh….. friggin' c'mere" nonsense noises as he catches the box with his nail and slowly drags it into his grasp.

When he finally has it, he sighs like a bellows and slumps back on the sofa. "Thanks for the help."

"You literally told me to hold still."

"And you listened! So cruel." He holds the box in both hands, dragging his thumb against the ridge, as if about to open it.

Instead he offers it to you, palm up, hand open.

You take it, and immediately open it. The wafers are sitting inside, stacked neat and whole. "You ready?"

"Am I?" Jake snorts. "I should be asking you that."

"Why? My part in this is easy."

"It absolutely is not." For a second, his mouth opens again, ready to continue. You can imagine what he's ready to say: a reminder that this isn't needed, that if you're not sure it's fine, et cetera. But you hold his gaze and watch all that fizzle out. He stops, and sits back, watching you with a soft expression.

But like you said. This part is easy.

You lick your finger and tap one of the wafers. Closing the lid on the others, you lean over to drop the box back on the table. Once you settle back into place, you meet Jake's eyes, open your mouth, and place the wafer on your tongue.

He exhales hard, once, and squeezes your ankles. It conjures a small grin to your face.

"Anything you want," you remind him, and fold your hands on your chest. "It might be fun, actually, trying to figure out what you did afterward."

"You'll feel much of it," Jake reminds you, his voice tight. "Not sure about the, ah, way sleeping will mix with sensation, but still."

"It'll make for interesting dreams." And the words are leaving your mouth when you feel it start. Unlike with the Euphoria, there is no gradual held-hand trail into the effects of the wafer. It's not a subtle slide into incoherence. You _feel_ something in your chest sway like a pendulum, some sense of equilibrium upended and scattered like marbles over stone floors. "Oh."

"Oh?" Jake twists, lifts up on one knee. Fingertips against your jaw, he stares hard at you. "Is it already kicking in?"

"Yeah." You swallow, and your next blink is slower than the one before. With great effort, you push back, trying to open your eyes all the way. Shit, this is happening faster than you expected. Bracing on the back of the sofa, you push yourself upright, careful not to tip over like a kettle. "Should head upstairs."

"Okay," Jake breathes, hurrying along with you. He grabs your elbows, and you smile and clap your hands against his forearms in return. "Are you fine to walk?"

"Let's not talk about whether I can walk and jus' move," you tell him sternly, and start backing up, trusting him to follow.

"Ah, no! Nope." He takes a firm hold of you and turns you around. "You'll bash your skull walking backwards. Lead the way, your majesty, and I'll take care of you."

"Good," you agree. That's good. You circle around the sofa, one hand on its frame, and then cross the long expanse beyond it, like a boat unmoored from safe harbor, left to drift until you can reach out and get a hand on the staircase.

The first two steps are actually easy, especially with Jake holding your hips. Then, you lose balance a little, and lean your body on the railing. It's heavy wood, reinforced with magic. "Great stairs. Alchemists are good witches."

"Thank you, lovely." Jake joins you, one step below. You turn to rest against his chest, and he shakes his head. "No, no, Dirk, Dirk." There's rich humor in his voice, and he nudges you back around. "Up, just a few steps."

Spinning back to face the loft, you grab the railing with both hands. Gently, Jake plants his palm against your lower back and pushes. Eventually, you have to climb another step. You're higher up here, and it makes your head feel like a full glass. "Oh."

"Yes, oh. You're nearly there."

"Oh." You take another step. "Jake."

He follow you right up, arm curling around your waist. "How're you doing?"

You're not sure. "Everything feels like it's… thick." Blinking, you look around. "This is high."

"Alright, you've done admirably, but now you're quite finished." You thought he was already very close, but he uses his arm to drag you closer. Or, him closer? You're not certain which is right, but he's solid like an old oak against you. Bending, he grabs your thigh with one hand, arm under your ass, and your feet lift clean off the ground.

You rest your head against his, and shut your eyes.

"How're you still this light?" Jake mutters. "After all this time, you're a baby fawn, it's unbelievable."

"Love you," you say into his hair.

And then your eyelids are so heavy, you can't pry them back open with all your might and willpower.  Can't move your arms, can't…

You sink into a soft, warm embrace, and lay still.


	2. poppy, steeped in white lightning

It is a few hours before sunset in the epicenter of winter's cold, amorous embrace when you find yourself standing on the stairs up to your elevated bedroom, feet solidly shoulder-width apart with a grown man in a dead sleep in your arms.

Dirk is lucky he's terribly sweet like this, lips parted around his suddenly valley-deep breaths and clinging to you like overgrown lichen. He sleeps still as stone, thank the stars, so all you have to do is move carefully. One step at a time, gripping the railing with your free hand, you carry your sleeping prince up to bed.

Thankfully, your ancestors who build this apothecarium knew how to do stairs right. They are wide enough and sturdy enough, and you make it up to the loft.

Two steps, and the bed is laid out for you. As always, it's a mess; Dirk sleeps in this time of year, and he never bothers to make the bed when he wakes. Just for this, you're glad, because it makes it easier on you.

Lowering him to the bed is harder than carrying him upstairs. His sleep is deep and alchemic, and given the potency of a valerian-poppy one-two punch, he's not likely to rouse if someone slapped him across his handsome face.

Still. You're careful, back muscles straining as you lay your charge out, his long limbs a sprawl, arms and legs slightly bent, remaining precisely where they fall against the rumpled blankets and pillows.

Sucking in a breath, you sit back on your heels and look at him.

There's a lamp on the nightstand, used for night reading and little else. It's not fully evening yet, but the sun is well out of position to illuminate the top of the house. So, you press the embossed symbol on the lamp, igniting it, and pull it into the best position.

Dirk lays there, breathing slowly, his eyelashes dark against his cheeks.

It's not like you've never seen this before. You've shared a bed with this man for years now. You know his sleeping visage.

It still manages to feel different, making your breath catch in your chest a few times while you sit at his side and watch him, like something brand new to commit yourself to, commit to your memory.

His head is back against the bed. If he were awake, that would probably hurt. You cup the back of his neck, lift him, and unhinge the comb in his hair. Setting it safely aside, you lower him.

Biting your lip, you scoot closer to the head of the bed and grab one of the pillows. Lifting again, you slide it under his head, and rest him on it.

His hair's caught under his cheek. You stroke it back, pulling it loose, dragging your fingers through it until it fans out over the pillow beside him. It's getting long. Soon, you'll be able to braid it back, if you can just dodge his requests for a shear a few weeks longer.

There's a whole mess of things in your chest. Butterflies and rattlesnakes and plain old nervosa.

It _shouldn't_ feel so different, but it's strumming through you like plucked string. Even the way his neck stretches as he sleeps makes something in you pace furiously.

The entire point of this is that you can touch him. And honestly, a whole lot more than that. Bow or no, he's a present laid out for you to enjoy.

The idea makes you unseasonably warm. You shrug out of your cardigan, and drop it to the floor.

If you _don't_ do something, you'll likely burst into flames, you're blushing so fiercely. It's like you have to let off some steam, or it'll come whistling out your ears.

You take his hand.

It's strange. He doesn't close his fingers around yours. They remain curled, lax, long fingers and soft skin. He's still a little soft all over, scholar and prince and artist.

Picking up his arm by the wrist, you support his elbow in your palm, and hold him like that until you can rub your face against his hand. Still, he lays unmoving. So you can lean down and kiss the soft, extra pale skin. He's ticklish here, and jerks away when you do this.

You fold your hand over his and hold him, your face against his arm, your breath hitching a little. Thank fuck he can't see you like this. This is absurd.

When you're done doing _that_ , you lay his arm back down by his head and tug the laces at the throat of his tunic. Plucking them loose, you pull his collar open.

Taking it off is a delicate process, like balancing a sugar cube on the back of a spoon. His body does nothing to help you, but goes where you demand, and you tuck and bend him up until you can pull the tunic free and drop it down with your cardigan.

There are those freckles, scattered like fawn spots and stardust. They should vanish against his powder pale skin. You touch a few, fingertip to fingertip a compass mapping the distance between each one. A couple almost make a constellation, you think. You lean in to check, and once you're close, you can't help but blow across his skin.

Still, he doesn't move. But his nipples pebble, and you huff out another breath. It's chilly up here, especially this distance from the fireplace. Shit. What a way to experience heightened senses and carefully prepared helplessness, catching cold like this.

You pull and arrange blankets until you can climb into the bed with him. Your knees frame his body, and you draw the covers up over you. Hands splayed wide, you try to cover as much of his chest as you can reach, and stroke heat back into his body.

His heartbeat is slow under your touch. It distracts you for a few long minutes. Slow and steady, like his breathing.

His lips are parted. The desire that strikes you then sinks in like a stiletto blade, all the way to your core. Nudging his face upward, you bend over, bringing the blankets down to cover him.

First, you just press against the corner of his mouth, as if full contact would catch you alight like kindling. His breath moves against your cheek, and you swallow against a sudden knot in your throat.

Kissing him is like taking his hand; strange at first blush, given his lack of response that you have grown so used to its like your own muscle memory. Then, you find you can explore the places you've missed before, part his lips further just by parting yours, and trace the shape of his mouth with your tongue, light as a quill pen.

When you lean back, Dirk's lips are red, and his mouth is open enough, you can touch your fingertip to his front teeth.

You lean back and catch your breath, going back to stroking his chest warmly.

"This is why you're always so damned cold," you tell him, palming his ribs. "There's barely anything to you. No wonder you need four socks and three sweaters and a throw to keep cozy."

Sliding off him to the side, you take one of his arms and pull, drawing his wrists together. Tucking under one of his shoulders, you pull and tuck him, dragging his knees up to curl, and work studiously to roll him onto his side.

His hand is limp next to his head. You are loathe to touch him, to rearrange him further. He looks comfortable. Under the blanket of alchemy, is he comfortable? Can he feel the back of your fingers running down to his elbow, reversing and stroking to his shoulder, then down again? Does the light touch make him want to shiver, like usual?

You tuck the blankets more securely around him, resting your hand on his back. His spine is a little harsh. Dragging your thumb along it, you imagine playing it like some sort of instrument.

There's a tense spot under your fingertips. You examine the spot by touch, just off from the small of his back. It's a knot. It's a pretty big one, too.

Shifting around on the bed, you carefully tip Dirk further onto his front. The plane of his back is offered to you, and you brace with one hand on his shoulder, pressing in slow circles around the knot.

It's tedious and methodical, but you pull gently and apply pressure in cycles, until the threads of the knot come free. Then you push hard into his back, dragging against the knot, up to his shoulder blade, and outward to his arm. With a little concentrated effort, the tension unspools, and you think Dirk lets out a sigh.

Laying down next to him, it's easy to pull him against your chest. His body obeys without so much as a strand of hesitation. Arm around his chest, you stroke his collarbone and rest your head against the back of his neck.

You've never doubted this, not for years. Not worried about the life you built together, not spared a thought to anything that could break the peace you found out here, so far from the kingdom. Nothing can touch you out here.

And nothing can touch him, but you. You sigh and loop your arm around his waist, stroking whatever span of skin you can reach, reveling in how he feels in your grasp. Nothing will ever hurt him again.

This isn't a gift. It's a reward you've earned together, and you clutch it covetously close and guard it against the cold world outside.  
  


 

* * *

 

The dose wears off, and as you expected, Dirk wakes almost immediately. A benefit of the recipe was the lack of any ingredients that would keep him asleep, so taking it early in the evening gave you time to see how the aftereffects worked and ensure your little joint experiment didn't have any ill effects.

When Dirk rolls up onto his arm and scrubs his hand over his face, you hold his sides. "How do you feel?"

He gives you a blurry, squinty look. "Tea."

"Of course, poppet." You climb out of bed on the other side, and circle to help Dirk stand. There's some remaining unsteadiness in his gangly limbs, but you take the steps down together, perfectly synchronized.

Dirk doesn't speak for a bit, but keeps making mumbly hummed noises, like archiac ideas of words. Or like an old man cursing the world at large, which you find a little amusing.

You deposit him on the sofa, and leave him to sort out his careful array of blankets as you dump out the mugs and make new brews. Taking your time, you load little sleeves of linen with strong ceylon and some rose petals and little dried buds, and pour hot water over them.

When they're ready, you return to Dirk, and hold out a mug to him. He blinks owlishly for a moment at the offering before taking it with both hands, resting the stone cup on his blanket.

For the second time, you ask, "How do you feel?"

He stares down into his mug for a moment, blinking slowly a few more times. Then, he looks over at you.

"I'm confused," he says in a throaty, faint voice, barely louder than the fireplace. "It might be my fault, I suppose, for taking us down this road with the whole thing. I got the impression you were interested rather than humoring me, but I've misread things before. You could've just said, though. I'm… I know that we met in a time of…" He pauses to lick his lips. "Of great vulnerability, but I know you. And you know me. You could have just said."

"What," you say haltingly, "are you going on about?"

He takes a big slurping drink of his tea, and then pauses to look at it with wider eyes. "Oh, that's…. Good. But, I mean that we went through this whole process and you didn't… do anything."

Oh. Oh shit.

You did not think this part through, now, did you?

"Now see here," you say, your mouth moving, desperate to do something to stop that distant lonesome expression that's taken over Dirk's face. Forethought and reason are not holding the reins at the moment. "I did plenty of things! And if you recall, the lion's share of purpose to this experiment was to put your trust in me and let me-- erm, put hands on and such."

Dirk lifts a hand, his throw slipping off, exposing a lot of bare skin. "Leaving no sign."

Oh, you know what he expected. It was, to be quite honest with yourself, much the same as _you_ had been expecting. Neither of you had spoken it out loud, nothing but oblique references to the trust between you and how Dirk would accept whatever you wanted. It was a heady opportunity that privately had your blood simmering. Waiting for Dirk to finally choose the day had been a quill-tipped torture.

All of that had been dusty old academics that crumbled in the face of the reality of _having him_.

"It wasn't like that," you tell him.

He holds your gaze for a moment, then sort of sags, back towards his lap and his drink there. "Alright."

"I'm serious."

"No, I… I know." He goes silent for a long moment, before his brow knits inward. "It's just that you were the one who suggested the sleep awareness thing."

Putting your mug down, you close the distance between the two of you. Dirk gives you a slightly wild look as you settle into his side, and hunches bashfully as you throw one arm along the back of the sofa behind him and cheat your body in towards him. He lifts his mug, bracing it with a fearful look, like you're going to knock the thing over like a pillock.

"I sure did, you dandy lion, because having you swoon into my arms and let me tuck you up exactly as I want without so much as a peep was _something_ , Dirk." You reach right into his blanket cocoon and take his arm in your grip. There's a stutter of breath in him, a half-flex of resistance from surprise alone, and you lift your eyes to stare at him.

Dirk's lips part softly, and he sits silently and watches you pull his arm all the way out, until you can brush your lips against the soft skin.

He twitches. "Tickles."

"Does it," you say, still holding his gaze.

You don't want to have to say it. Thankfully, Dirk's expression clears by degrees. Your grip on him loosens, and he's slow to tuck back away in his blanket.

"So you… enjoyed it."

"Desperately." Pulling your arm off the sofa back, you curl it around him, and stroke his far arm with two fingers. "However, it seems I left you wanting. What a damned fool I am, having my prince helpless to my designs, and he wakes up to complain about the lack of hard use."

His ears turn red. "C'mon, Jake." He's not looking at you anymore, studiously finding every other mildly interesting thing in line of sight from his seat to focus on instead. "I just-- I was expecting to wake up…"

You squeeze his arm, hard. Just a bit too hard, maybe. "A little sore?"

Dirk says nothing, but his face is positively rosy.

And you did find yourself caught up in a sweet sticky thing before, waylaid by the unsnipped cords of tension in Dirk's body, the rise and fall of his chest in peaceful rest, and just how affecting that all was.

But now, you remember the other things you had in mind. The other sorts of things a fellow could do with a dearly beloved left so eagerly in his care, ready to be moved and held without a whisper of worry to mar his tender calm.

Really, if you thought about it, you'd already been the better man. And it left Dirk disappointed.

"Well," you tell him with a lazy drawl of words. "If you're looking to be ravished, your majesty, that can be arranged." Your grin is toothy, almost wolfish. "We've got more wafers."

 

* * *

 

The next day doesn't work, because enough time has passed that it's time to take the worked ingredients and set them up for the next stage in their individual journeys.

Dirk sits at your side at the work table with a bowl full of carved beads next to him. Each one is glossy alder wood, notched and swirled with ornate patterns that twist around the ring. As you finish preparing each poultice, spreading the individual mixtures of kind herbs onto linen wraps, you pass them down to Dirk.

Wearing gloves and working with precision, he ties each wrap up with a charcoal black ribbon, and loops the silk through the beads, making a sturdy little package of each one. The beads will keep them from spoiling, and snipping the ribbon will break a heating spell over the wrap so its ready for use.

All Dirk's idea, after he watched the Artificers' work one harvest season, how they created sensible little charms. It's absolutely devilish, and you can't wait to show Gran next time you see her.

Dirk glances across at you a few times as you assemble your wares in relative silence. Slowly, his face colors and he asks, "What?"

"Hm?"

"You're barely looking at what you're doing," Dirk says. "Have I got this wrong somehow?"

"On the absolute contrary, I was just thinking if you wanted, you'd probably pass the Alchemy Guild's certification with a veritable rainbow of flying colors."

Dirk snorts softly, shaking his head. "Says you, resigned heir of the guild."

"Says I," you confirm, undeterred. "Also, slapping some green muck onto some scraps isn't the sort of thing that requires a majority of a man's attention, so what _else_ should I be staring at?"

He ties off another bundle, pulling the ribbon through the charm bead and tugging, lifting the poultice and spinning it with flourish before tying it off.

"Gorgeous," you say.

"Shut up," he says, staring determinedly down at his hands as he works.

Next day, you do oils. Taking the heavy, thick steeping jug, you dole out healthy servings into smaller, more ornate bulb bottles. Dirk holds the strainer for you as you heft the master around, keeping the depleted stalks and seeds out.

By the time you have emptied your master jugs, your arms ache from the lifting and careful pouring. Luckily, Dirk keeps a balm for himself at the table; you help yourself to a healthy rub of it and get to massaging your arms while Dirk labels each bottle with a little tag and ties it in place with a hemp cord.

You're staring again. You know this because Dirk abruptly puts down his slim brush and turns on the stool to give you a stern look.

"Hullo there."

"Jake," Dirk says with the sort of exaggerated patience that means he's on the verge of running out of said patience. It's precious, how he still composes himself like that, even as the years erode away his niceties in a pleasing way. You're a fan of the man underneath it all.

"Don't mind me, I was just quietly scheming over here."

His brow creases with the force of his frown. "Scheming. What are you scheming?"

"Precisely all the places I'm going to leave marks on you when we get the time to try another wafer."

Dirk's mouth opens enough you can see his pink tongue before he grabs the table and pulls himself to face front again, burning like the fireplace. "I see. Planning on that soon?"

"Up to you, honestly," you say with a deep sigh.

His hands still as he picks up another bottle and his brush. His gaze is heavy on the label he's to paint, not you, but you can hear the delicate clockwork in his belltower, grinding away.

"Not necessarily," he murmurs.

You lean your cheek in your hand, waiting.

He continues to watch his own work and not you. "You know where they are. You could just…" His wrist flicks, and he glares at a black dot of ink that lands on the table. You reach out and rub it with your sleeve. "Don't use your shirt."

"Would you like me to pick the when?" Keeping him focused on target is an ordeal sometimes.

"There's appealing aspects to the idea of leaving that decision up to you. And like I said, I trust you, and for me, that's the most important part of this." He shrugs one shoulder, then leans in to give the label some due diligence. "Just not tonight. Not really in the mood."

Graciously, you wait until he's finished with his current fiddly little painting before you lean in to kiss his cheek. He grunts a warning, as if you weren't being careful enough. You tsk right back at him, then go to make some hot tea.

 

* * *

 

The idea of it is sort of _actively distracting_. You stand outside, feeding the chickens and making sure they're all warm and cozy in their house, and you can't stop thinking of how you can do this. The entire situation is a reminder of the way Dirk talks about trust, and how it makes you feel a little desperate.

So you don't wait very long before moving forward with your plan. You can't bring yourself to wait until nightfall, honestly. As soon as Dirk pulls on his coat and goes to give Acorn some quality brushes, you have the house to yourself.

It's a little past noon, but you pull the curtains and set up some candles, setting them in neat rows across the fireplace's stone foot. You don't have normal matches and don't remember where they are, so you just grab one of the overlong matchsticks meant for the storm lamps and use that.

You pull all the pillows to the spot in front of the fireplace, pushing the table flush to the sofa to make room.  The oldest quilt in the house you spread over the floor to make it a little more cushy.

Stepping back, you look it over and decide it should be decent for laying Dirk down and giving him the ravishing he's yearning for. Which soothes that itch, honestly, the old lilac fever when all you want is to take Dirk in hand and unwind the wire tension in him. Anything is better than the way he lets it dig in and hurt him.

This will help. Already, the strange halting dance has made the winter move so much more enjoyable. It makes you hopeful as you put your hands on your hips and grin at your makeshift bed.

Shit, you've forgotten the little lacquer box with the wafers.

You dash to grab it, and hear the door behind you. By the pillars, after all your work!

Palming the box, you return to find Dirk holding his coat hooked on his elbows, dragging around his heels as he looks over the state of the living room. He turns on his heel to face you, eyes gleaming like summer dawn, warm and heated.

"Hi," he says softly. "Redecorating?"

His easy humor could ruin this if you let it. Squaring your shoulders, you approach him, and wave to the pile. "Take a seat, your majesty."

A fleeting smile steals over his face, strong enough he turns away, hand pressing against his mouth. "Uh, wow. Okay."

He's cute, with his shy smile and cheeks pink from the cold outside. It's terribly unfair, and again you nearly falter.

Instead, you hold out your free hand for him to take. A pretty good recovery, thank you very much.

Dirk puts his hand in yours, and you help him down onto the pillows. Dropping next to him, you both take off his boots, tossing them away from the bedding.

He leans back on his hands, and gazes over at you through his eyelashes. It's downright coquettish, really. "Candles and everything."

"Only the best."

You place the box on the floor, and untie his tunic. It comes over his head easily, covering his arms in gooseflesh and mussing his hair, half-loosened from his lazy knot of thread. He reaches up to tug the knot away. Maybe you happen to let out a dreamy sigh at that, because he rolls his eyes a little at you.

When he reaches for the box, you nudge his hand aside. "Not yet. Lay back."

Coaxing him back, you help him recline, then adjust the bedding to be comfortable for him. Apparently being conscious for this part is affecting. A flush spreads up from his chest into his neck as he shifts against a few pillows, and lets out a tense breath.

"Warm enough?" you ask.

"Yeah. Close enough to the fire," Dirk says in a near whisper.

Good. Plum excellent. You scoot into the space between his knees, leaning over him. His fingers press against your stomach, reckless and needy.

Rather than what you instinctively want to do, taking his wrists and pressing them down over his head like you've done so many times in the past, you retrieve a wafer from the box, closing the lid after and holding it between your fingers.

Dirk goes lax against the pillows under him, watching your fingers, as if he were already sinking under the spell. Which is good. Which makes your heart pound in your ears.

"Open," you tell him.

He opens his mouth, and sticks out his tongue.

Anything you could think to say would break the moment, and it's too much to risk.

You press the wafer to his tongue, holding it there for a few seconds. The edges of it begin to dissolve, and you can feel it start to break and shift under your fingertip. Letting go, you ease back, and watch Dirk breathe in and out, deep breaths, lips parted enough for you to watch the wafer dissolve and go to work.

It's only just vanished on his tongue before you brace your elbows around his head and lean in to kiss him.

He's warm and eager against you, his arms folding around your shoulders to cinch you close drawing you down against his body. A thrill runs down your spine, just thinking about having a front row seat for the dose kicking in. As he strokes your shoulders and catches his fists in your shirt, you simmer inside. He's all yours, ardently so, and this time you are going to get it _right._

You can taste the sweetness of the sugar petal in his mouth, and the floral green of the rest of the mixture as it works on him. It's a heady, powerful mixture, cloyingly tacky, like getting caught in molasses. The alchemy drags against your lips even as your kiss slows, as Dirk lets out a helpless little hum.

His hand curls around your jaw, thumb stroking. It feels like he's strumming your soulstrings, it's so deep and inexorable. You moan and push against his tongue, trying to convey how much you enjoy the feeling. The feeling echoes through you, vivid and bright.

When you pull back for a breath, your eyes are heavy. It's almost overwarm here, balanced over him. He's fresh out of the cold, though; you press your forehead against his neck, reveling in the chill there.

Dirk mumbles your name, hands running down your back. That's lovely. He's lovely. Tucking your arms better around him, you nuzzle him slowly, and feel his slow breathing against your hair.

It's such a calm feeling, you shut your eyes and sigh, strength spilling out of your arms like thread from a dropped spool.

You sink, and rest, tender and warm.

 

* * *

 

You, Jake English, are a starblasted idiot. Albeit, an extremely comfortable one. A fool in the lap of luxury.

Luxury, to you, being Dirk. He's just stirring as you look up from the little spot you found to rest, head partially on his shoulder, rolled on your side with him tucked between you and the fireplace.

Scrubbing your face helps with the drowsiness, but it's still slow coming. You've done something absolutely indefensibly daft, you know that. The exact details have yet to find you.

Dirk huffs and drags the blanket higher over his shoulders. He's nestled against you, probably for warmth. As he wakes, he lets out an almost kittenish yawn, covering it with the back of his hand before he manages to blink up at you.

Oh. You're an absolute dunce. Slapping a hand against your face, you flop onto your back and groan.

"'kay," Dirk mumbles. "What happened?"

Your mouth twists unhappily. "I ruined the whole thing by being a complete clueless lummox who can't think with both his heads at the same time."

Dirk pushes upright, dragging his blanket with him like a cape. "That sounds harsh, but…" He runs a hand through his now utterly messy locks. "Wait."

"I locked lips with you and tangled tongues while you still had a load of the magic stuff in your mouth," you explain with a strained laugh. "I fucking dosed myself and we had a fine mid-afternoon nap!"

Dirk stills in the middle of rubbing one of his eyes, squinting at you with the other. Slowly, he lowers his hand. "You what?"

"I know," you say despairingly. "Oh, lovely, I know."

Together, amid the makeshift bed and the burned down candles and the day sliding ever closer to evening, you sit and reflect on the mess you've made. And _you_ specifically, incorrigible and foolhearted, mucking it all up. It'd been downright romantic, too! Playful and sweet! You'd been so proud of yourself.

Eventually, Dirk sighs. "Well. It was a decent if completely counterproductive nap. And we've got one more wafer, I guess." He stands, bracing on you to rise. "I'll go put on water."

 

* * *

 

So, this is your final chance. You're not going to ruin it again.

You give it another week, until Candlenights is just around the corner, and you can see it in his eyes when he glances across supper at you, that he's figured out the game, and the silly joke kept silent between you. Of course it's gauche for him to use the holiday, but you're completely allowed.

He's doing that sulky annoyed half-frown because he thinks he's got you pegged.

That is the night you pointedly make him a small cup of his evening chamomile and place the wafer on the saucer.

He's in the midst of reading, so he doesn't notice it right away, and you settle into the sofa with your hands spread wide across the back, waiting. When the moment comes, he licks his finger to turn the page of the playbook he's borrowed, and finally he reaches out for the cup.

There's an ice spell cast over him, he freezes so suddenly. The only sign of movement is his eyes flicking sideways to you.

Strike up the band, it's time for act three, and you endeavor to steal the whole show in this final scene.

You lift your eyebrows at him, and don't move a muscle.

The moment he pushes the cup back onto the saucer and instead picks up the wafer is lightning down your spine. He starts to say something, you think, but seems to change his mind mid-thought and instead puts the wafer on his tongue and closes his mouth and along with it his eyes.

Which is… a very good look for him. Ooh, boy. You've intended to play this suave, trying to fulfill a presumed fantasy of Dirk's that has been haunting you ever since he mentioned wanting you to decide the _when_ of this. The hiccup before makes it a little harder to maintain your confident mask, and watching him now only makes things worse.

But by the fucking pillars of creation, you are going to do this. So you start, hoping for inertia to carry you.

"Come here," you tell him, reaching out.

Dirk blinks at you, but obligingly shifts on his knees, close enough for you to drag him bodily on you, straddling your hips. His hands grip the sofa behind your head on either side, and he gives you an adorably confused look as he looks down at you.

You're not prone to repeating mistakes. Taking hold of his chin, you tell him, "Swallow."

His breath catches in his chest, but he does, the apple of his throat bobbing.

Now it's safe to kiss him, and you pull him down and in until you can delve into his warm mouth, tasting of lingering sugar paper and floral bitterness.

To your relief, the tonic does not hook itself into you this time. This was the exact thing you were hoping for when you arranged this. The rushed romantic liaison in front of the fireplace is old news. Now, what you crave is the feeling of Dirk kissing you as the alchemia takes him.

Or, maybe more accurately, gives him over to you. That's a nice thought.

He hums softly as he leans over you and pushes against your tongue, slipping away, and turning his head to find a new angle to do it again. You run your hand up and down his back and leave him to it.

You feel it in degrees. Dirk's movement slows, narrows, his hands still and loosely curled on your shoulders. Only his mouth continues, as if all his focus is poured into the effort to keep kissing you. It's flattering, and you smile against him. His sounds melt into tenuous, almost frustrated moans as he goes still, his tongue against your lower lip, then jolts back into motion. He stops again with a sigh, eyes shut.

Step by step, he falls asleep, his forehead resting against you, his mouth open around his deep breaths, balanced and safe in your arms.

Cupping his neck, you sit up, and keep gentle hold of him as his body falls back. His fingers are hooked lax in your clothes, which makes your heart swell in your chest.

You carefully pull off his tunic, keeping one hand rooted against his lower back for safety. It's easier this way, and divesting him of his clothes in front of the fireplace will keep him from catching chill.

Shirt off, you tip him over into a boneless spill of limbs on the sofa, and stand to take off his soft drawstring pants and underclothes. Naked, he just keeps breathing quietly, heedless to you as you loom and leer at him.

It's somewhat overwhelming, to be here again. What do you do? What do you do _first?_

For now, you take hold of his ankle with one hand and lift it, stretching it out, looking at how _long_ he is like this. With a single grip, you push his leg up, bending his knee, nearly pressing it up to his chest. Like so, you have room to sit, settling next to him and lowering his leg down across your lap.

Now here is an inspiring place to think about your next move. You palm his tummy, your skin dark against his. Rubbing his stomach and the bottom of his ribs and tracing his navel at your leisure, you consider your options.

The only certainty: whatever you do, Dirk is going to feel it. You won't disappoint him again.

Which brings you to the thought of amyris and borealis.

Dragging your hand lower, you push fingertips into the soft skin between the cut of his hips, where his hair is darker. Shimmying around, you turn in towards him, and lift his knee again, resting it in the crook of your arm, spreading him out.

His cock is soft and unassuming for the moment. WIth your broad oven mitt paws, you can hold the length of him easy, the head peeking out at you in a way that makes you grin. Laying it down, pointed away, you run your fingers underneath, along his sac and the endlessly delicate skin there. You weigh one ball then the other out of curiosity, and judge them both to be very nice.

Snickering to yourself, you shake your head. Dirk will surely be thrilled.

Anyway. You lean over to reach under the sofa, and snatch up the bottle of oil you stashed there, having moved it from the bedroom to somewhere easier for this. You have to put Dirk's leg down to oil up your fingers and palm, but lift it up again after, and turn all the way in, essentially sitting cockeyed on the sofa to have room.

What's nice is that Dirk's leg fits right on your shoulder. It's perfect, and you just press against his thigh to keep him from slipping off as you grip his cock again and stroke it slowly. Making a ring with your fingers, you start at the base and pull all the way up until his dick slips out of your grasp, now glistening and slick.

You do it again a few times, taking stock. It's not long at all before you can feel a flush to his skin, heating as blood starts pumping with a little more direction.

Satisfied with that, you tug his legs a bit until his ass tilts against the cushion. There, you can work under him, and push one finger into him without preamble.

Dirk's dick flushes and starts to lift itself up. There's more than a little joy in working your other finger into him, blood hot and devoid of resistance; you brace with the heel of your hand as you rock in and out of his hole, pulling it slightly each time, encouraging the stretch, and watching as he grows hard from the attention.

Along the sofa, his body is still loose, a flush starting to kindle in him even as his breathing remains steady and deep.

Touching his soft cockhead, you consider what it'd be like to just bend forward and swallow around him until he helplessly comes. There's a few intriguing bits to that: Dirk incapable of being timid about you sucking him off, none of that warning you when he's about to come, and just the comforting warm soft thing to put in your mouth.

But also, no hands in your hair, none of his babble, and you won't get that moment right before he comes where his eyes go almost crossed from the force of it. And it won't leave Dirk sore.

So no. Something else. You put his leg down, letting it rest with his heel on the floor.

Given the foundation you've laid, an obvious decision comes to mind. If you are to make use of him, there is a decent position for it.

Standing, you grab his arms and pull, trying to resist all your urges to treat him like blown glass. His head lolls back, the apple of his throat prominent. You bite it, a sharp mean little nip, before folding him forward. Reversing his position on the sofa, you lower him onto his front, his chest against the cushioned arm. His head hangs again, as do his arms, making no attempt to support him.

You inhale deeply, bracingly, before taking off your clothes, dropping them into the pile with Dirk's. The air is just a little too cool, and pressing against Dirk's body sounds fucking splendid right now.

One of his knees folds against the sofa, under his weight, and you let the other drape off, unconcerned. Or, really, certain that he's not going to do anything to wiggle out of your grasp.

Kneeling on the cushion behind him, you oil up again. Prepping yourself with one hand, idly tugging your dick the rest of the way to hardness, you let your other paint his back with a slick shine.

You match up without even thinking about it, pulling your dick in time with pulling your hand hard against his lower back. There are divots like dimples above his ass, and a curve in the small of his back you can fit your palm into.

It'd be nice to just stroke yourself out and come across all his pretty skin, make a mess over his scattered freckles. But again: make him feel it.

You grip his hip, thumb pulling against his cheek, and you push your cock all the way into him with a slow but demanding thrust.

Closing your eyes, you bite your lip and just rotate your hips for a long luxurious moment, enjoying it. He's so lovely and warm and accepting, taking you without so much a hitch of breath or gasp. You stroke his spine, and wonder how deep he is, if he can feel how pleased you are with him down there.

Maybe if you press hard enough. You slip out, and shove your hips back against him, hard enough to make a crude slap noise. It's rougher than you'd be with him any other time, but he's so open like this. And after you do it once, you have to do it again.

There's nothing to direct you but sensation and curling heat in your gut. You don't want to bowl yourself over too fast, so you keep your eyes shut and rock your hips to the rhythm you want. It feels just a tad scandalous, taking a soft sleepy prince and wringing your pleasure out of his body, but the benediction of Dirk's secretive desire is just tinder for a growing fire.

You fuck him slowly for a while, just enjoying the slicked drag of your body against his. Then on a whim, you slam into him fast and hard, grabbing the back of the sofa to brace and thrust, thrust, thrust, hauling yourself right to the edge before you stop and gasp, legs shaking.

As you wait for the impending orgasm to wander off and leave you alone, you hear something other than your own panting.

Looking down, Dirk is still precisely where you left him, of course. But you can see his hand, hanging a bit off the ground, and his fingers curling just a little.

His chest is moving with faster breaths. Not like being awake, of course, but quicker still. With every exhale, you hear a faint noise. It's not quite a moan, but it's more than a sigh.

Placing your hand on his back, you pull back, then slide back home, all the way in him.

Dirk moans, drowsy and tinged with something like surprise.

You pull out of him and sit back on your heels, grabbing your dick with a too-hard squeeze. Oh, no, you can't come, not yet. It'd be so easy, goaded on with the knowledge that he can feel it, that the sensation is enough to penetrate the thick shroud of sleep and affect him. That's a whole lot to take in.

But now that you have, it's a command igniting you like divine purpose. You have to make him come like this. You _have_ to make him groan for you.

Once you've calmed down enough to not accidentally shoot off and ruin everything again, you climb off the sofa. This requires a little rearranging.

This time, you're much more considerate as you move him. Tipping him back until you can get a decent hold of him, you pull him back from the arm of the sofa. Glancing down across his body, you confirm he's fully hard now, with beading precome running down the side of his cock. It probably wouldn't be hard to just reach down and get him to completion, but this way is going to be much more satisfying for you both.

But you also have to ensure he's okay. Resting Dirk on his back, you unfold the leg he'd been leaning on, stretching it out and running your hands from his knee down to his ankle. Cupping it, you bend his foot this way and that. The alchemically amplified feeling of a sleeping limb would be just the worst.

Once you're sure he's not going to lock his leg, you sit him up and lean him into the sofa back until he feels like he's not liable to tip onto his side. Taking hold of his hips and pulling them to the edge helps.

Dirk breathes with a soft tone in every exhale, his head lax and tipped back.

Leaning in, you brace a hand on his shoulder and kiss him. Just the corner of his mouth, but you linger, feeling his breath on your cheek. You hope he's enjoying this. You think he is.

You kiss his temple and his nose and his lovely unfurrowed brow before leaning back again, ready.

The angle is a bit wonky. Spread-legged and sprawled, he's just not high enough for it to work. You have to put in the effort, wrapping your hands around his thighs and lifting him a bit. His legs are limp behind you, but he's still not heavy enough to be much of a burden. And besides, you don't think this will take long.

Getting your cock to slide back home in him takes some truly inspiring, judicious hip action. You huff and let out ungentlemanly noises as you slip against the oil along the crease of his ass, missing thrice before you catch against him. When you finally manage it, you immediately tilt your body and push into him, relieved.

Dirk inhales off-rhythm. You beam at his sleeping face.

It would look positively debauched to anyone watching, the way you hold this helpless man half-aloft and descend on him with amorous fury. You can feel his legs moving every time you jostle him, kicking the air aimlessly. But his hands remain open palmed on the sofa, and his face is a regal painting of slumber.

You grip his thighs hard enough to bruise and fuck him, blooding singing at the perfect circle of heat dragging along your cock. Biting your lip, you fight to hold on, and just watch him. You can get yours anytime, but seeing Dirk vulnerable and safe in your grasp arouses something in you. In your heart, not just your dick.

He's unfairly attractive like this, and you worry your plan is doomed. That's about when his breathing quickens, and the flush in his chest spreads like a forest fire up his neck and into his cheeks. Yes, that's it.

The waterwheel has nothing on you, how you work relentlessly at him, driving his soft murmurs up, demanding and encouraging them until Dirk's eyelashes flutter. His next exhale is a moan, rich and shameless in a way you've never heard before. So often he'd press his lips together or hide his face against your shoulder or in a pillow, _something_. Now once he starts, he can't stop, can't think to be bashful or coy, a rolling stream of sipped gasps and low moans pushed from him with every beat of your hips.

He's a beautiful thing. You can barely stand it. You want to squeeze your eyes shut against the building tension winding in your body, but missing a second of this is a crime. All you can do is push him further and further.

The muscles in his abdomen tense, untense, clench, and his fingers twitch into the start of a curl. His voice shifts from a moan to a tender cry, songbird sweet. Under your hands, you feel a strummed chord in his muscles as his dick bounces and jerks, come striping past his navel and up his chest.

Shoving yourself in to the root, you flail and grab his cock to stroke it. He lets out a delicious gasp-sob and shoots up his own chest in an impressive streak of white.

As soon as you feel the tension leak out of him, you stop, and just hold him in place.

His eyes remain closed. There is a dark, rich blush over his cheeks. He moans for a moment, before going quiet again.

You've gotten what you wanted, and so has Dirk, you believe. Now, you are harder than you've ever been in your life and if you don't come right now, you might go blind.

Thankfully, you have an obliging love. Pulling out of Dirk, you finally let go of his legs, lowering him to the ground.

Then, it's fast. One hand carding through his hair so you can kiss his open mouth. One hand around your cock. And, fuck.

In a minute, you groan into Dirk's mouth, and stripe his chest yourself, relief pounding with your heartbeat. You've backed yourself off the edge so much, the release feels euphoric, starbursts and colliding colors. It's bliss.

And after, you drop, your knees on the cold floor, Dirk's legs unknowingly cradling you, your body slumped against him.

It leaves you in a bit of a mess, but that's fine. You're too worn out and humming down to your bones, you don't care. You rest your head on a fairly clean span of skin, and shiver, waiting to settle back in your mortal form. Stars and towering pillars.

Some time later, you climb to your feet, and pull a blanket down onto the sofa, curling Dirk to your chest.

You rest.

 

* * *

 

It's not sleep, per se. Exhaustion and relief hold tight onto you as you lay there, Dirk tucked in the small space between you and the back of the sofa. You're two grown men, and so you have to hold onto him to avoid tipping and falling to the floor. But that's fine.

Euphoria is a good word, you think. That old book is full of antiquated recipes, but House Harley was built on refining and changing things, turning benign ingredients into magic to rival the other guilds.

You're thinking about how to phrase the summation of the new Euphoria in a way that isn't obviously illicit when Dirk yawns so wide, you think his jaw pops.

The smile that takes over your face is entirely involuntary. You'd sooner find a way to stop the sunrise. "Hullo, lovely," you whisper.

Dirk's eyes tighten, and his nose scrunches up in an adorable way. "Mmgh." He's an eloquent thing.

You watch the show as Dirk returns to the waking world. His body moves with a sleepy stretch, and he freezes, letting out an honest, shocked gasp that tapers into a groan. "Fuck, what…"

Propping head up on your elbow, you snicker. "What's wrong, Dirk? Feeling a little sore?"

He blinks his eyes open slowly, squinting as if the light was blinding. "Uh…" Shifting, he gets a hand under himself, and winces as he starts to sit up. "Jake, holy shit." He gives up and slumps down, half on his back. "I… I feel…"

"Please, go on. I'm sort of curious." Gently, you stroke the backs of your fingers down his ribs.

Dirk rubs his face, and finally looks at you with some clarity. Or, probably as much as he can manage before hot tea. "I can't believe-- yeah, sore, my legs feel like I ran all the way to Skaia." He abruptly shuts his eyes again and shoves his head against your clavicle. A harsh shiver breaks over his body. "Jake."

Oh, you know that. You roll half onto him and wrap him in your arms. Weight, he likes weight in these moments, after a rough bit of lust. "Right here. You are too, aren't you."

He hums and rubs his face against you in slow circles. The shivers aren't as violent, but still there.

"Hey." You kiss his hair. "Hey, would you like a bath? Would that do you just right?"

The noise Dirk makes at that suggestion is obscene, and also a solid affirmative.

Wrapping him up in the blanket, you make him sit up, cocooned and safe as you haul on some bare minimum of clothes. Two buckets full of snow does the trick, and you melt it all with some rune tiles.

You're a little sore yourself, and carrying Dirk isn't helping, But his hand curls around your neck as you do, and it's rather sweet, so you forgive him.

Like watering a wilting flower, the bath revives Dirk. For a while, he just soaks with his head on the rim, but before long, he pushes himself upright and runs his hands over his body under the water.

"You left me a mess," he grouses, grabbing soap and a wash rag.

Normally, you like to take over bathing him just because it… reminds you of before. The better parts of before, in that time when you were naive and eager to please. More innocent, in a way. In the way someone can be innocent when bathing a prince and jerking him off in the tub.

Today, you just sit next to the bath and fold your arms on the edge, watching as Dirk cleans himself. "Well, I couldn't handle every damned thing, could I? How do you _feel_ , beside indignant?"

Dirk doesn't respond right away, and continues washing up. That's fine. You wait.

When he's clean, he slumps in the warm water and sighs. "It's… hard to explain." His eyes are half-lidded as he looks at you. "But I assume you want me to try."

"You have a particular way with words."

He snorts, and a smile flits onto his face. "Yeah. It was…" He traces his upper lip with his tongue slowly. "I remember kissing you, and then being asleep. But it was strange. No dreams, and I just knew I was barely asleep. Like when you're sleeping in and your body wants you to wake up?"

"I never sleep in," you tell him.

"Liar," he says mildly, and shakes his head. "It didn't make any sense. It just felt… fuck, Jake, I don't know. Like a lot of things were happening very fast, and I-- I was feeling them all and they were overlapping. I couldn't keep track." He rubs his face, careful not to get his hair wet. "Then I started to actually wake up, and it all hit at once."

"Was it a good thing?" you ask. You hope it was. Maybe pushing him so far the first proper time wasn't a great idea.

But Dirk flushes in a way that has nothing to do with the steam. "Uh, yeah. Yes. It was…"

"Good?"

"Like a bodily epiphany that wouldn't fucking stop happening," he blurts out, then covers his face with both hands. "Fuck. And I'm so sore, what did you _do?"_

You laugh, and brace yourself to lean in. Pulling his hand away, you kiss him.

He kisses you back. It's wonderful.

 

* * *

 

You let Dirk write the new entry on the Euphoria. Partly because your handwriting is allegedly awful. Mostly because Dirk is better at phrasing it as anything other than a weird aphrodisiac.

Candlenight comes and goes. There aren't any gifts this year, but there's a rich stew and glühwein by the fireplace with you fending off Halley's curious nose from your mug.

Time passes, a waterwheel in some perpetually unfrozen river.

Before long, Dirk looks up from watching the pot boil, and says in a faint voice, "Oh."

You join him at the kitchen window, and watch the icicles melt, winter releasing all around you.

It'll be back. But that's fine. You can handle it together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love this universe with all my heart.
> 
> thanks for reading. 8)


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